Earl of Every Sin

by Scott, Scarlett

  He slapped his glove against his thigh. “Maldición, I do not want to speak of my past. Ask any other question, and the answer will be yours.”

  His acknowledgment did not stay the chill threatening to sweep through her, chasing away the heat. The questions she longed to pose most were the ones he would not satisfy.

  She forced herself to offer another, which had also been eating at her. “Does it not bother you that I have been compromised?”

  His gaze darkened. “I already told you, I do not observe the rules of your society. They mean less than nothing to me. I govern my life in the manner I choose.”

  Something else occurred to her then. “If you think to rush the marriage because I am ruined, my lord, you need not do so.”

  “I am not rushing the marriage,” he denied swiftly. “One week is ample time. But please explain yourself, my lady. What sin is it you suppose me guilty of now?”

  Her skin went hot. Her cheeks were bathed in flames. The place between her thighs ached anew. And even her breasts tingled.

  If only she were not so painfully aware of him.

  “Do you want to marry me in haste because you imagine me…experienced, Lord Rayne?” she asked, gathering her courage.

  He considered her. “Whether or not you have shared another’s bed before does not signify. All I ask is that you remain faithful to me until you bear my heir. We have discussed such matters already. Our discourse grows tired.”

  She did not like the bite of his tone, or the suggestion she was boring him.

  How could he be so unaffected, so cool, when merely being in his presence had her in a tumult?

  Another question arose within her, one which needed to be spoken. “Will you remain faithful to me in turn before I bear you heir?”

  He stilled. “Would you like me to be, Lady Catriona?”

  “Yes.” Her own vehemence surprised her, but there was no calling it back once her admission had been made.

  A small smile returned to his lips. This time, he moved, taking a step in her direction at last. The scent of him drifted to her once more. She could not quell her reaction regardless of how hard she tried.

  “Then I shall be,” he told her softly, stopping when there was once more an improper distance between them.

  Scarcely any.

  She could touch his chest.

  Or his broad shoulders.

  Or, good heavens, his lips.

  She wanted to do all those things. To touch him everywhere.

  “I will not be made a fool,” she added, disconcerted anew by his proximity. “I have already been mocked and scorned enough.”

  “I will not bring shame upon you, querida.” He touched her chin once more. “We are to be each other’s allies in this war. I am not like the other man you knew, the one who hurt you.”

  She pressed her lips together. Perhaps he knew more of the scandal than he had previously suggested.

  “How do you know I was hurt?” she asked.

  “It is there, in your eyes.” His gaze seemed to bore into hers, dark and consuming. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  She did not want to relive her foolishness. The naïve ease with which she had been led to believe Shrewsbury’s affections were true. That when he told her he loved her, he had meant those words.

  “Did he force you?” There was a punishing edge in his voice now.

  “No,” she hastened to say. “He merely misled me. I was fool enough to believe his lies.”

  And she had vowed to herself then and there that she would never again believe the lies of another man. That she would never again find herself at another man’s mercy. Yet, here she was, on the cusp of being at the mercy of the Earl of Rayne.

  “I will never lie to you,” Rayne said, “and that is a promise. Nor will I mislead you. I am being honest about what I want from you, just as I expect you to always be truthful with me. Allies, Lady Catriona.”

  “Allies,” she repeated, liking the sound of the word.

  A man with secrets.

  Perhaps she would learn them one day.

  He leaned toward her, dipping his head. She held her breath once more, supposing his mouth would claim hers. But it did not. His lips brushed over her cheek in a chaste kiss.

  “One sennight,” he repeated when he raised his head.

  It was not a query but a statement.

  With that one, tender gesture, he had eased her misgiving. “Seven days,” she relented at last. “I will marry you seven days from today.”

  His smile was blinding. “Yes, you will, querida.”

  She thought of one more question. “What does that word mean, querida?”

  Her knowledge of Spanish was frightfully sparse. The way he spoke it, in his mellifluous, accented voice, made it sound beautiful. Almost tender. But for all she knew, he was calling her a spoiled chit.

  He sobered, releasing her chin before sliding his glove back on. “Dear. It means dear.”

  Rayne bowed, and with those final, parting words, he was gone from the garden, leaving her to watch his imposing form stride away. When he was out of sight, she allowed herself to settle quite soundly upon the bench she had derided for being dirty.

  A sennight.

  As she sat alone in the garden, staring into the blossoming clumps of Sweet William at her feet, she could not stop thinking of the sadness in his eyes. Nor could she stop thinking about the manner in which he had touched her. The velvet roughness of his bare skin upon hers.

  One whole week.

  It hardly seemed time enough to prepare herself.

  But somehow, it also seemed like a lifetime away.

  Chapter Four

  Alessandro had gone mad.

  That was the only reason he had agreed to wait seven days to make Lady Catriona Hamilton his.

  Seven damned days.

  What had he been thinking?

  Madness was also the sole explanation for his presence at a ball. A boring society ball, being held by the Marquess of Searle and his marchioness, who was Alessandro’s half-sister, Leonora. Balls were nothing but a pestilence. There was nothing more inane than lords and ladies preening about and dancing. He suppressed a shudder and sipped his ratafia, which was decidedly not strong enough to quell his rising temper.

  For nothing, it seemed, could spur his ire quite like the sight of Lady Catriona dancing with another partner. He watched her on the dance floor beneath the glittering chandeliers, smiling as she elegantly made her way down the line before twirling about with a man Alessandro did not recognize. He did not like it. Maldición, not one bit.

  Leonora appeared at his side suddenly, smiling and looking radiant. “Alessandro,” she greeted him. “I am so pleased you decided to join us this evening.”

  He did his best not to glower at his sister, for she was beloved to him. “It was not of my own volition, I assure you.”

  Leonora’s smile faded. “I know you dislike balls.”

  “I would prefer to have my eyes pecked out by ravens,” he said.

  In Spain, he had witnessed ravens feasting upon the bodies of soldiers. He would never forget the sight. Such a strange dichotomy between the man he was in Spain, the guerrillero, and the man he was supposed to be here in England, the Earl of Rayne. He scarcely even knew who he was any longer.

  Both men, it was certain, were devils.

  His sister blanched. “You must not say such things in society, Alessandro.”

  No, he must not. Far better to pretend there was not a war waging on the Continent, ravaging his home and his people.

  Bitterness made his lips curl in a grim twist. “Forgive me, hermanita.”

  “Lady Catriona is beautiful,” Leonora observed, “and quite kind and intelligent as well. I do approve of her.”

  He approved of her, too. His gaze flitted back to the dance floor where she was once more twirling with the blond-haired fool whose cravat had been tied into a ridiculously ela
borate affair. He looked like a cake.

  Alessandro scowled. “She was an expedient solution to my problem.”

  Leonora tapped his arm with her fan. “You need not be so grim. If you had not shot Monty—”

  “Leonora,” he interrupted her with a suffering sigh, still not able to tear his gaze from his future bride. “Need I remind you of the reason for the incident to which you refer?”

  Leonora sighed at his side. “No, you do not.”

  Her husband, the Marquess of Searle, had been hell-bent on dueling with Alessandro because he believed him responsible for his imprisonment by enemy soldiers. Alessandro had been leading a band of guerrilla soldiers against the French when he had been charged with taking Searle behind enemy lines. The men he had chosen for the incredibly difficult operation had been overtaken by the French themselves. Searle had been taken captive and tortured.

  But after falling in love with Leonora, Searle had decided to abandon his quest for vengeance. Only, he had failed to inform Alessandro himself, instead relying upon his second, the drunken reprobate Duke of Montrose. Montrose had stood in Searle’s stead, and in the sotted state he had been in, waving a pistol, Alessandro had been given no choice but to be the first to inflict a wound.

  “We will leave the past where it belongs,” he told his sister tightly as the dance came to a conclusion and Lady Catriona dropped into a pretty curtsy. “Thank you for helping to ensure my betrothed an entrée back into society.”

  Though he wanted nothing to do with the pompous lords and ladies of the beau monde, Lady Catriona would be remaining in England as his countess. He had no wish for her to suffer in his absence, nor did he want his heir raised in ignominy. Knowing she would have a staunch ally in Leonora pleased him.

  “It is my pleasure,” Leonora said genuinely, for his sister had a heart as pure as an angel’s. “I am so pleased you are deciding to wed, Alessandro. I have missed you these past few years.”

  Guilt pricked him. “I am not remaining in England for long, hermanita.”

  But still, his gaze would not leave the graceful figure of his future countess across the chamber. Lady Catriona had a partner for the next dance as well, it would seem. Perdición.

  “But you will have a wife,” Leonora protested, her voice steeped in disappointment.

  “I will,” he acknowledged, “but that will not alter my intentions.”

  He had not had the heart to tell her his stay in England was only predicated upon getting an heir on his wife. That he had every intention of returning to Spain—and the war—as soon as he could. He had known his sister would disapprove, and he wanted nothing more than to avoid exchanging words with her.

  He loved Leonora far too much for that.

  She was all he had left.

  Until he had Lady Catriona.

  But he did not have her yet. And she was currently smiling at yet another pallid, English fop. Resentment boiled within him. Old fears and feelings he had thought long banished returned.

  “What do you mean having a wife will not alter your intentions?” Leonora demanded. “Alessandro! You cannot mean to return to Spain after you wed. Surely not.”

  He forced his gaze back to his sister at last, knowing the irritation inside him would only swell to a dangerous crescendo if he continued watching his betrothed dance with other gentlemen. Gentlemen who would have been only too pleased to cut her, given her damaged reputation, before she had become his betrothed, and Leonora had launched a campaign to see Lady Catriona’s reputation restored.

  The scandal tainting her was not gone completely, it was to be sure. But tonight was a beginning.

  Leonora was frowning at him.

  “Spain is where I belong, hermanita,” he said simply. “You know this.”

  “You belong at your wife’s side,” she countered. “You cannot abandon her.”

  He gritted his teeth. “She will not be abandoned. She will want for nothing as my countess. Her pin money will be more than generous, and she will have you and my heir as her family.”

  “Your heir,” Leonora repeated. “Alessandro, if you have a child, you must remain.”

  He had already had a child. But not even Leonora knew about Maria and Francisco.

  He said nothing. On this, he would not be moved.

  “Alessandro,” his sister prodded, condemnation dripping from her voice.

  “All will be well,” he told her simply. “You shall see.”

  In truth, nothing would ever be well, including Alessandro, again. But there was no point in dwelling upon that which could not be changed. His wife and son were buried beneath the red, Spanish clay. He had died along with them. The shell that remained, bitter and broken, would carry on. War was all that was left for him.

  He knew how to fight. How to kill.

  He had become a monster, and he knew it.

  He was spared from making further conversation by the appearance of Leonora’s husband, the Marquess of Searle. They bowed to each other. The marquess’s expression was wary. And well it should be, for the bastard had used Alessandro’s sister as a pawn in his game of revenge. If it weren’t for Leonora’s gentle disposition and obvious love for Searle, Alessandro would have torn him limb from limb.

  “Rayne,” Searle bit out grimly.

  “Searle,” he returned with equal rancor.

  “Husband and brother,” Leonora said warningly. “I do expect you both to be courteous on my account. I know how very much the both of you love me.”

  “It is his only redeeming quality,” Alessandro and Searle both muttered at the same time.

  Disgruntled, he could do nothing but meet the equally peeved gaze of his former nemesis. Perhaps they were not as different as they believed. Dios knew they ought to have been friends, would have been allies, had not the campaign to land Searle behind enemy lines gone so hopelessly awry.

  “Oh, how fortuitous,” Leonora said then, giving them a quelling look before turning her attention in the direction of the dancers Alessandro had been doing his damnedest to ignore. “Here comes Lady Catriona now.”

  At last.

  But his betrothed was not alone. Rather, she was accompanied by the sallow Englishman who had been her partner in the last dance. Alessandro stared at the man, who was either too stupid or too self-important to care he was inciting Alessandro’s wrath.

  Pleasantries were exchanged as Lady Catriona and the man—Viscount Dutton—added themselves to the circle. Alessandro ignored most of the drivel the man spouted.

  Two days had passed since he had touched Catriona in the garden, and all he could think about was touching her again. The softness of her skin. The way she smelled sweetly of jasmine. How she had tipped her head back, her blue eyes melting into his. Or how her lips had parted, an invitation he resisted with only the greatest exertion of control.

  He had almost kissed her.

  He hungered for her lips beneath his, even now, when he had sworn to never again take another woman’s mouth with his. It was shameful, the way his body had reacted to hers. He hated it, and yet he also craved it. He could not help but wonder what it would be like between them, whether or not their lovemaking would be as fiery as he believed it would be.

  Her eyes flitted to his then, as the fool escorting her began a dialogue with Searle. The pink flush blossoming in her cheeks told him she was recalling their shared moment in the garden as well.

  He suddenly wished they were back in the garden rather than surrounded by two hundred sets of curious eyes and gossiping tongues.

  “You have come,” Lady Catriona said to him softly so the others could not overhear. There was approval in her voice.

  Had she doubted him?

  He inclined his head. “I am always true to my word.”

  A small smile flirted with her lips. “I am glad to hear it, Lord Rayne.”

  The strangest urge hit him then, like a fist to the jaw landing out of nowhere.

  He wanted to dance with her.

 
Perdición.

  He had not danced at a society event since he had been obliged to obey his sire and forced to become a proper English lad. The only trouble with his father’s plan was Alessandro was the half-Spanish son of his Spaniard wife, a woman who had been his mistress. Alessandro, with his dark hair, eyes, and skin, and scandalous mother, had been an outcast from the moment he had been born into this cursed world.

  On principle, he had eschewed all English customs from the moment he had been old enough to have a choice. He had immersed himself in the land of his mother’s birth, using the language she had taught him before her death instead of English. Why, then, would he wish to engage in niceties at a ball?

  The faint strains of the next dance reached him.

  A waltz.

  He had danced it before, on the Continent. The English had considered it far too fast, but he supposed times were changing. And fortunate for him, too, for there was nothing he would like more in that moment than holding Lady Catriona in his arms. He had five more days to wait, after all.

  He bowed to her. “Will you do me the honor, Lady Catriona?”

  Her brows rose. “I thought you did not dance.”

  He cast a glare in the direction of his sister, who had obviously been responsible for relaying that salient bit of information to his future bride. But Leonora was chattering animatedly with the viscount and her husband, ignoring him. Just as well. At least the fop was occupied.

  He returned his attention to his betrothed. “I do tonight. With you, my lady.”

  Only you, he wanted to say, but refrained. It would not do to make her think he harbored feelings for her. He most assuredly did not.

  “Yes,” she said.

  They excused themselves from Leonora, Dutton, and Searle. Alessandro was acutely aware of the woman at his side as they made their way to assemble with the other dancers. The faint hint of jasmine sent a powerful rush of need surging straight through him.

  But he was also feeling churlish. He had not liked suffering through watching her dance with a procession of fops. Their betrothal had only just been announced, and he wanted all the world to know she was his. It was to be expected that she dance with others at a ball, for not even a betrothed could claim each dance as his own, but the irritation mounting within him did not know that.